A Great Man
by FugitiveSGA
Summary: Sherlock was not a trained killer. He found the idea of killing repulsive. But to protect John, he was forced to kill again and again. He returns to John, but is he still a good man?
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock shook his head marginally, and glanced towards the ceiling in the corner of the room. There was nothing there, but John knew what he meant. They were under surveillance. Normally that wouldn't worry Sherlock, but now it did.

It was three weeks later that they got a chance to really talk. They arrived at the cosy little village in the Lakes district, and Sherlock walked into the bedroom and spent five minutes scanning and searching it – bedroom, singular, John noted with less of a gulp than he would have three years ago. Sherlock called John in.

"Yep?" John asked.

"No surveillance," confirmed Sherlock, and John walked in and sat on the double bed.

"That's good," he ventured.

To his surprise, Sherlock knelt in front of him, took both John's hands in his, and said earnestly, "John, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

John's eyes locked onto Sherlock's, "For…." wild ideas ran through his head. Sorry there was no surveillance? Sorry there was only one double bedroom? Sorry what?

"You don't know what was at stake," continued Sherlock, gazing intently into his eyes. It was quite disconcerting.

"Um…."

Sherlock seemed deflated, then, and sighed deeply, "And when you do know, I mean what was at stake and what I've done, you may not want to be my friend anymore."

"I doubt that," John answered quietly.

Sherlock looked up at him, and John was struck by the hope in his eyes, which was quickly quashed, as Sherlock added, "Three years, John. What I did in those three years…."

John sighed, "Okay, you… climb up on the bed and sit here and tell me all about it. We have all night."

"I don't want to," Sherlock said nervously.

"Sherlock, you have to."

Sherlock hesitated, but then John said, "I need to know, Sherlock," and the taller man stood up then climbed up onto the bed, sitting up against the bed head, arms around his knees, pale grey eyes studying John. John turned to face him. He would have crossed his legs, but his bad knee wouldn't allow it, so he sat with one leg folded and the other stretched out in front of him.

"Okay," said John, "Start talking. In your own time."

Sherlock fell silent. John waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts.

Eventually Sherlock looked up at him and said, "Lestrade once said he thought I could become a good man, John."

"Oh, so you heard that?"

"Oh? He told you too?"

"Yes, he said you were a great man, and one day you might become a good one. What about that?"

Sherlock sighed, and said uncomfortably and very quietly, "John, what if I told you I don't think I can become a good man anymore? What if I told you that I don't think I'll ever be good? What if I think I might have even become… evil? Would you… would you still want to be my friend?"

John sighed and looked at him, "Well, firstly, I think you're wrong. I don't think you've changed that much since Lestrade said that. And secondly, being your friend…. it's not something that I think I can just decide, yes or no, Sherlock. I think it just is."

Sherlock shot him a brief grateful look, then returned to twisting his fingers together and looking worried, "But you don't know what I've done, John. These last three years…."

He sighed to a halt, and gazed helplessly at John again.

"Sherlock…. what happened at St Bart's? Why did you jump off? Why did you fake your death? You haven't actually told me yet, nobody has."

"Moriarty had said he would kill you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. He said he had three bullets, three assassins, three targets, unless I jumped. And then he shot himself so I couldn't force him to stop them."

"Jesus."

"And then I went… I infiltrated his network…. I got to know all his old contacts. It wasn't that hard, really, disguised myself and turned up at his funeral, masqueraded as his lover…."

"Easier when he was dead," smiled John.

Sherlock chuckled, then went on, "And when I was absolutely certain that I knew all his contacts, I shot them all."

"Wait, you got to know them? And then you shot all of them?"

"None of them were very nice people, John. Wasn't that your reasoning when you shot the cabbie for me?"

"But Jesus, Sherlock, how many of them were there?"

There was a long silence.

"Thirty-seven," said Sherlock, meeting his eyes.

John rubbed his forehead and lowered the weight of his head onto his hand, and was quiet for a long time. He eventually looked up at Sherlock and asked quietly, "Why not just the three?"

"Moriarty didn't tell me who they were, and I could not get the information from them without arousing suspicion. I had to assume that he had back-up plans and fail-safes in place, but I didn't know which of them were involved. The only safe option was to kill them all."

"Holy fuck," groaned John.

"John…. Mycroft doesn't know. He thinks it was about four or five, just Moriarty's inner circle."

"Yeah. And you obviously don't want him to know."

"No, I don't think even Mycroft would forgive me that. Even if they were all hired killers and worse."

John was silent for a long while, then looked up at Sherlock, and said, "Scoot over, I'm getting uncomfortable sitting like this."

Sherlock moved, and John moved up the bed then turned around, sitting beside Sherlock, leaning his back against the bedhead, and said nothing for another long while. Sherlock waited.

John eventually began, "Afghanistan…." but he trailed off.

He took a deep breath and continued, "I was a sniper, you realise? One of the best."

He fell quiet again, then said, "Everyone back here thought I was a medic, back behind the lines, taking in the wounded, just got caught in an unlucky spot and got shot. I let them think that… kept them happy, they didn't ask questions."

He turned to look Sherlock in the eyes, and said, "But you knew, didn't you? They wouldn't have invalided out a medic just for a gammy knee, would they?"

Sherlock shook his head. He had long ago worked out the story, but had never thought John would trust him enough to share it with him.

"You know the fitness requirements, you tested me out that first night we went out, remember?"

"Yes. Those jumps, the stairs, three kilometres of hard running… but you only took a minute or so to get your breath back."

"You already knew the knee was psychosomatic, so that wasn't what you were testing. You were testing my fitness levels, not whether I needed the cane or not."

Sherlock shrugged and listened.

"So you knew I was SAS. I was the team sniper and team medic."

"Sniper."

"Yes. When I shot the cabbie, what I didn't say…."

"…was that you'd shot lots of men before. I practically heard you think it, John."

"Yes, I could tell. Well, anyway, SAS, team sniper, good team… I'd shot…. _lots_."

"How many?"

"More than you."

"I wasn't being competitive."

"Yeah you were."

"Okay, maybe a bit," chuckled Sherlock, but there was a bitter flavour to his soft laugh.

John fell silent, surveying the other man, then after a while he said, "You start life with no real image of yourself, you know, but eventually you sort of build up a picture, and that picture includes whether you are one of the good guys, or one of the bad guys. I left for Afghanistan thinking I was one of the good guys."

Sherlock met his eyes again, and John continued, "I came back thinking that I was going to rot in Hell for eternity."

Sherlock looked down.

"Is that how you feel now, Sherlock?"

Sherlock met his eyes and held them. After a long time he nodded, then said softly, "I killed all those people, John, and all because…. I was protecting my friends. _My_ friends. Who's to say that I had any right to protect _my_ friends, at the cost of all those lives? Who made me judge, jury and executioner?"

"Moriarty did, Sherlock."

"Yes. And… I have to wonder, is this what he had in mind all along? Did he realise this would happen to me? Is this what he meant, when he said he would burn the heart out of me?"

"It might be. But, are you going to let him get away with it? Are you going to let those scumbags that hung around him get away with making you feel like that?"

Sherlock hung his head again, "I don't know, John. But this is worse than what I thought he meant."

"Oh? What did you think he meant?"

"What he said: that he would burn the heart out of me."

"What do you mean? What could be worse than what you just told me? Burn what out of you?"

Sherlock looked surprised, looked like he always did when John did not _get_ it, and replied, "You."

John felt his throat go cold, "Me?"

"Yes of course," replied Sherlock.

John felt like his world was disappearing around him, and all he could do was stare at Sherlock.

Sherlock, on the other hand, went on talking, not seeming to notice at all that John had gone a paler shade than his taller friend. The lights in the room were rather dim, John realised gratefully.

"But this is worse, isn't it, John? Now I feel like I might be on the wrong side of things, and I don't know whether you will want to keep being my friend. And if you don't…."

"Sherlock," gulped John, finding his voice, "If I can get this one thing through your head tonight: I will always be your friend. Always. And now to find out what you did for me: faking your death, running off for three years, infiltrating Moriarty's gang, killing all those people for me, to protect me… I mean, this may sound awful, but I think it's just wonderful that you did that for me. To protect me, I mean. Actually, yeah, ah… that does sound pretty awful, doesn't it?"

"Yes!" hissed Sherlock, "Do you see, John? Now do you see? Is it starting to mess with your self-image too? Knowing that I did all this for you? I used to think I was at least on the _side_ of the angels, but now…."

"You're not so sure?"

"Exactly!"

"Sometimes even angels have to pick up swords, Sherlock. You've heard the expression 'avenging angel' surely….."

"Yes, but I never wanted to _be_ one, John."

"Neither did I, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at him for a long time, and eventually sighed, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Good, that's good, I feel better. So, friends?"

John sighed, and said, "Git. Of course." But Sherlock noticed that he put his hands over his eyes again.

"What?" demanded Sherlock.

"My therapist…."

"Oh, please, John, how many people still actually believe that the aim of therapy is not merely to keep ordinary people so confused that they keep coming back for more therapy and keep the therapist in business?"

John chuckled, and said, "You're hopeless. But probably right."

"Alright, what did your therapist tell you?"

"Actually, it's what I didn't tell her…."

"What?" Sherlock had cheered up and was a little impatient again.

"Oh, forget it. No, don't forget it, dammit! I am not letting this go unsaid again!" He turned to face Sherlock, and said, "Just shut up and listen for a minute, okay?"

"Al-riiiight…."

"Look, Sherlock, the last few weeks before you died, during that whole stupid Baskerville thing…. Before that, hell, way before that….."

Sherlock looked as though he would dearly love to tell John to just spit it out, but held his tongue as he had promised.

John ploughed on, "I realised…. are you gay?"

Sherlock blinked, "I… don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know? What kind of answer is that?" demanded John.

"I have rarely felt any sort of attraction to any other person, so I lack data."

John sighed, a rattling, patient sort of sigh, and asked, "When you did feel this… attraction, was it to a man or a woman?"

Sherlock answered promptly but totally unhelpfully, "Yes."

"What? Which?"

"Both. Either. I don't know."

"What the hell are you on about?"

"John, how am I supposed to know if I am gay or not when the only people I have ever been attracted to are one woman, and one man? That's not a big enough sample to provide conclusive evidence. Why are you asking me this, anyway?"

"Fuck, I don't know."

"Not very informative," Sherlock told him irritably.

"Forget I asked," grumbled John, "Dinner?"

"Fine," growled Sherlock, and stood up from the bed, still looking irritable. As he reached the door, he felt a hand on his arm, and turned to see John looking up at him, "Sorry."

Sherlock relaxed and smiled, and John said, "Come on, we can talk more later if you like, I'm starving."

"Right. But you will tell me?"

"Those things I couldn't say?"

"Yes?"

"Only if you're very, very nice to me at dinner, Sherlock," warned John with a grin.

Sherlock frowned disapprovingly as he followed John out of the room, "That's blackmail."

"Only you could call someone asking you to be nice to them for an hour, blackmail."

"It's emotional blackmail, John!"

"Yeah, I guess. So who was he?"

"Who was who?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Sherlock. The one guy you were attracted to?"

"Don't play dumb with me, John."

But after Sherlock had walked along for a few more paces, he smiled, and John asked, "What?"

"You didn't ask about the woman," said Sherlock, looking like the cat who had got the canary.

"So?"

"So… your jealousy is directed towards the man," observed Sherlock.

"I'm not jealous."

"You're not a lot of things, John. They're starting to pile up. One day you'll trip over them."

"So this is you being nice to me, is it?" demanded John irritably.

"Oh, yes," smiled Sherlock, as he stopped before the dining room door, holding a hand up onto the top of the door, blocking John's way. John was forced to stop, but only after he had stepped up a little too close to Sherlock. Sherlock looked down at him and asked, "What would you do… if I started really being nice to you?"

John frowned, looking stubborn and confused at once. Sherlock smiled and swung the door open for him, and they strolled in, looking for the world to the other diners like nothing more than two old friends. And for once, Sherlock was really nice to John during dinner.

It was chilly outside after dinner, but Sherlock wandered out onto the balcony and stood with his head thrown back, looking up at the stars.

John followed, shivering slightly, and stood beside him at the railing.

"So what were they?" asked Sherlock very softly.

John knew immediately what he meant: the things that he could not say. He said, just as quietly as Sherlock had spoken, "The funny thing is, when I think of them, I'm sure you know most of them."

"Let's compare notes, shall we?"

"I thought you'd say that," sighed John, and turned around to lean his back and elbows on the stone balustrade. The silence seemed to stretch forever, but eventually John began to speak.

"I was lost, when you met me, Sherlock."

He glanced up at Sherlock, who turned to face him but said nothing, allowing John to continue.

"More than lost. At first I tried to balance it out, save as many as I killed, but even with a sniper rifle, you can do an awful lot more damage with a quick squeeze on that trigger than you can make up for the next day with a field first aid kit. My ledger was way in the red. Like I said, I thought I was going to hell. I thought I wasn't worth knowing. I'd killed so many people, and I just couldn't bring myself to care anymore, not about anyone."

John looked down at the stone floor at their feet, then looked up at Sherlock's face, and said, "And then you came along…. you were just so bloody amazing. It was like…. I'd never _met_ anyone before."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and remained silent.

John continued, "But then, I did that stupid thing at Angelo's, I threw myself at you, too soon I guess, and I thought…. God knows what I thought, Sherlock. I thought you'd appreciate the offer. But you saw so much more between us, and you stopped me, and gave me breathing space. I realised that I would break all the rules for you, hell, even break my own rules for you…. but you put the brakes on and helped me to see the value of our friendship. And then I got all confused and tried to push you away, tried to date Sarah….."

John fell silent, and after a while whispered, "Poor Sarah."

"And poor, um… what was her name?" added Sherlock.

"…Jeanette?"

"You're guessing!" exclaimed Sherlock, chuckling.

"God…." grinned John, "Well….anyway…."

Sherlock's face sobered and he watched John's face carefully.

"I guess, even if it's just friendship that you want, I need to tell you how I feel about you," said John.

Sherlock nodded encouragingly.

John squared his shoulders and went on, "I just… I would do anything for you, and no matter… how, you want me, I'll be there. Like that. Whatever… you decide." He pursed his lips in frustration, "I'm not very good at this…."

"Don't ever make that mistake. You're doing just brilliantly," murmured Sherlock's deep voice.

"I just… I had this all…" John hissed in frustration, "If you'd asked me a week after you'd… jumped, I could have told you exactly… but now… I've been so confused for so long…." he sighed.

"And thereby hangs a tale," observed Sherlock. He pulled on John's arm, and tugged the shorter man around into a gentle hug.

They stood like that for a long time. John tried to pull back and talk once, but Sherlock shushed him and held him close. Eventually the doctor relaxed into the warm embrace of the taller man, and Sherlock closed his eyes. Then John shivered and Sherlock pulled back slightly to look down at him.

John asked quietly, "What do you want from me?"

Sherlock sighed and shook his head slightly, "I don't want anything from you. I need…."

He hesitated, and said eventually, "I need the air, and I need you, John. I need just to breathe. I can breathe, when I'm with you."

"Oh, Christ," exclaimed John, his voice muffled from burying it back in Sherlock's coat.

"What?"

"There it is, right there. Everything I was trying to say, in a nutshell. I can breathe when I'm with you. And I can't, when I'm not."

Sherlock smiled, "Come on. Let's get inside. You're shivering, and you need a warm fireplace, too."

John chuckled, and repeated, "Too."

They went back inside, and Sherlock led the way to the fireplace, where they both settled down into the warmth of one of the sofas placed in a half circle before the fireplace.

John was asleep within minutes, and Sherlock sat watching the orange light of the fireplace play across the blond man's face as he slept.


	2. Chapter 2

John opened his eyes blearily.

When did waking up start becoming a good thing?

He stared at the mop of black curls tucked into his shoulder and neck, and remembered that it was about three weeks ago.

He struggled to remember the previous night. Dinner. He'd had dinner with Sherlock, and Sherlock had been… cheerful. Maybe he dreamt that bit? No. The detective had definitely been in a cheerful, almost playful mood the entire time they were dining. But after that?

John couldn't remember a thing. One thing he did realise though, was that they were both still fully clothed in their dinner suits, and… oh, shoes as well. And they were both sleeping on top of the covers. So, got really drunk, probably. Passed out together on the bed.

He started at a voice beside him, and glanced down into eyes that looked silvery in the morning sunshine. Sherlock murmured, "John," and smiled a goofy, vulnerable smile that melted John a little. A lot, really.

"Hey," whispered John in return, "Did we fall asleep?"

"Falling down drunk, if I remember," groaned Sherlock with a rueful grin, "You hung over?"

"Me? No, never."

"What? No fair."

"Military training, remember?"

"Oh, God, of course."

"Are you hung over, Sherlock?"

"Stupendously," groaned Sherlock, but then belied that by murmuring, "I could do with something to eat."

John laughed, and the detective snuggled a little closer. John asked, "What are you doing?"

"Snuggling. It's cold."

"Get under the covers then."

"Can't be bothered getting undressed."

John fell silent, considering that. Sherlock moved, then moved again to look up at John, and declared mischievously, "Do you always wake up like this?"

John said, "Like wh- oh. Oh, maybe."

"You're blushing," smiled Sherlock blearily.

"And you're still drunk," muttered John.

"I'm not that drunk. I can tell you've got morning wood."

John sighed, and stubbornly ignored Sherlock. Sherlock smiled wickedly, and snuggled a little more. The situation did not improve. At all. In fact it may have worsened.

"Am I turning you on?" demanded Sherlock delightedly.

"No! No! Not at all!" denied John hotly.

Sherlock chuckled, "Not what I would have guessed."

"Shut up."

"Want me to take care of that for you?" asked Sherlock slyly, sliding a hand across John's stomach.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock grinned and desisted, then asked, even more slyly, "You never did tell me those things that you 'couldn't say', John."

"So?"

"Tell me now?"

"No. I'm not in the mood. Not the best time."

Sherlock smiled, looking positively evil, and asked again, "Are you absolutely sure you don't want me to do something about this for you? Must be awfully uncomfortable…."

"Stop it! Just stop it!" John was feeling hot and uncomfortable, and a little tense.

"It might relax you," suggested Sherlock.

"I'm. Not. Gay."

"Nor me," smiled Sherlock, sliding his hand across John's stomach again, letting it drift lower down, brushing the waistband of his trousers. John shifted away, and said, "If you don't stop this, I'll kick you out of the room."

Sherlock smiled and snuggled closer, then undid John's trouser button, saying in that soft and dangerous voice he used just before he exposed criminals, "No you won't."

"Will."

"Won't. See? You're protesting a bit much, there, John, and as for actions speaking louder than words, you haven't stopped me at all…"

"Sherlock…."began John in a dangerous voice, but just then he gasped as the detective slipped his hand under his pants and began softly stroking John's cock, with a gentle, slow motion that had John gasping for air.

John panted helplessly, and Sherlock's eyes lidded as he watched him.

"Oh, God, I hate you sometimes," whispered John.

Sherlock looked a little sad, but not for long. His expression segued to pure mischief as he whispered, "The things you were going to tell me, but couldn't? If you tell me, I'll stop."

"No. I won't be blackmailed into telling you."

"Then I won't stop, John," purred Sherlock and began stroking John's cock in a gentle, regular rhythm. John heard a moan and was shocked to discover that it had originated within him.

"Stop."

"I'm not hearing the sincerity there, John…." Sherlock said, his voice dropping into a deep, husky register that made John's entire body go tingly.

"Stop."

"Tell me."

"No."

"Then I won't stop," growled Sherlock, making good on his words by intensifying his attentions to John.

John cried out, and then grabbed Sherlock's hand. They looked at each other. Sherlock's eyes were huge, a little guilty, like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. John shook his head, "I'll tell you."

"Oh," breathed Sherlock, looking disappointed. But then his eyes widened almost comically as John gently pushed his hand back down to cover his cock.

"But don't stop," added John.

Sherlock stopped breathing for about twenty seconds, then with a shuddering intake of breath took hold of John again and looked at him enquiringly.

John closed his eyes, and whispered, "Obviously, point One… that." He glanced down at their hands, "That I would do that."

"That you want this….."

"Yes."

"Point Two?" asked Sherlock, at the same time destroying any chance John had of answering him by squeezing John gently and beginning to move his hand up and down slowly. John's eyes closed and he was elsewhere for a moment or two.

"John?"

"Ah, yes… Point Two…. I obviously didn't want you to jump because- Oh, God, don't do…. Oh, Jeez, Sherlock….."

"Should I stop?"

"No. Yes? How badly do you want to hear what I have to say? Because you're going to have to stop to let me think."

"Oh? Does this really stop you thinking?" asked Sherlock, looking very interested.

"Yes, of course it does… ohhh..Sherlock."

"I wonder. Would it work on me then?"

"Will you please concentrate on what you're doing?"

"I need a break from thinking John."

"Yes, we could all do with a break from your thinking….. ohhh, God!"

Sherlock stopped. John almost howled with indignant rage, but managed to control it down to a sad little whimper of, "What?"

"You were telling me, the things you couldn't tell me. It was interesting."

"So, what, now you're stopping _unless_ I tell you? Didn't we start back to front from here?"

"Oh, yes we did. Somehow that got swapped."

"Somehow," moaned John.

"If you want me to start again, all you have to do is say….."

"Oh, my God, you're evil."

"No… I don't think so," Sherlock surveyed John, looking a little hurt, but mostly curious, "Well?"

"I…. I…I can do this myself. I don't need you to do it," declared John, palming himself stubbornly and glaring at Sherlock. It wasn't as good, it wasn't nearly as good, but he was damned if he was going to tell Sherlock that.

Sherlock smiled with one side of his mouth and whispered, leaning down to kiss John on the chest, then planting gentle kisses slowly down to his belly button. He looked up at John innocently, and asked, "So you don't want me to…." the offer was there, in the direction of his kisses, in the sweep of his eyes towards John's cock.

Something inside John cracked, "Alright! You smug bastard. Alright. Keep going, okay? Just keep….." and then he gasped as Sherlock kissed downwards with a smug grin and latched onto the tip of his cock with those gorgeous full lips. John bucked upwards as Sherlock sucked him in and swirled his tongue around the top of John's now hypersensitive penis, and cried out as the detective slowly, slowly took his entire length into his mouth.

John suddenly reached down and pulled Sherlock's head back. He looked down at the pale face, the black curls, the open, flushed mouth and whispered, "The main thing? The main thing I couldn't say…. was that…" he took a few deep breaths and looked down at Sherlock, "…that I love you."

He saw a strange light pass through the grey eyes, but Sherlock said nothing, and pushed John's hand away. Sherlock looked at John, looked as though he were going to say something, but changed his mind and returned his attentions to John's cock.

John was reduced to whimpers and moans as Sherlock began to set up a rhythm, pulling John into his mouth and releasing him, until John was fucking into his mouth wildly, grunting with each thrust. Vaguely John saw that Sherlock had his own cock in both hands and was pumping it furiously, too, and the sight was too much for John who warned Sherlock with a croak, "I'm gonna come," and then all thought was gone as he climaxed hard, pouring his seed into Sherlock's mouth, who to John's surprise and delight drank him down enthusiastically as the detective came himself, white seed pouring out over his hands.

Sherlock collapsed exhausted next to the sated John, who moaned and pulled him up to his shoulder.

"Oh, God… that was fucking brilliant," murmured John.

"You think so?" Sherlock was quietly surprised, as he always was when John praised him for anything.

John chuckled warmly, "God yes."

"Good," but Sherlock seemed distracted.

"What?"

Sherlock held up his hand, looking mildly distressed. It was covered in semen, "It's sticky."

"Here," said John on impulse, took the hand in his and pulled it into his mouth. He tasted it cautiously, smiled at the enraptured look on Sherlock's face and began to lick and suck it clean.

Sherlock was silent, then when that hand was clean help up his other hand for the same treatment. John obliged.

"You don't mind the taste?" whispered Sherlock, looking quite entranced as he watched John's tongue dart in and around his fingers.

"Um… no. Kind of spicy."

"You really meant what you said earlier?"

"That I love you?"

"Yes," breathed Sherlock, looking quite undone by hearing the words again. John finished cleaning his hand and released it. Sherlock used it to trail absent little circles on John's chest.

"Of course. I tried to tell you at St Bart's but… you jumped before I could bring myself to say it."

"So, you wouldn't say it to stop me committing suicide, but you would say it to get me to give you a blowjob. John, _really_."

"It sounds bad when you say it like that," muttered John, "But in my defence, you didn't really commit suicide, and you give awesome blowjobs."

Sherlock thought about that for a while, "That's not really a very good defence."

"No, it's not, is it?" admitted John shamefacedly.

"Hmmmph," said Sherlock.

"Sorry," muttered John.

"Oh, that's alright. I know you're not capable of real feeling, John."

"…..what?"

"You know, genuine, rational feelings. I mean, you have these little," and Sherlock made a fluttering gesture with his hand towards John, "emotional thingies. I get that. But I know you can't _feel_ like Mycroft and I can, and I accept that."

John brought his hands over his face and interlocked his fingers, effectively blocking the world.. and Sherlock… out of his vision.

"John?"

John huffed, then said, "And I was expecting 'I love you too, John.' What. An. Idiot."

"Well, obviously," smiled Sherlock.

John unhooked his hands and looked at Sherlock, wondering what was obvious. Did Sherlock mean that he loved John too, or was he agreeing that John was an idiot? Probably the latter. John said, "You really don't think you've said anything wrong, do you?"

"Have I?" Sherlock looked worried.

"No," smiled John and hugged him, "Not from your point of view, no."

Sherlock frowned, and said, "You know, I really am very fond of you too, you know John."

"Fond."

"Yes."

"Oh. Good."

Sherlock could tell that it was not good, that it was barely even acceptable to John, but he could also tell when he was digging himself into a deep hole, and decided sensibly to cease and desist from the conversation. Talking to John about feelings, he realised, was probably never going to be one of his strong points.

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"It's alright. It's fine. You're doing brilliantly. For you."

"Thank you."

John pulled him close and just held him, and the feel of Sherlock snuggling gratefully into him and reaching his hand around to pull John close as they drifted back to sleep was reward enough, reward more than words, John suspected, would ever be.


End file.
